


The Westwood Enigma

by svmmerborn



Category: Creepypasta - Fandom, Slender Man Mythos
Genre: Canon Non-Binary Character, F/M, Gen, Mental Health Issues, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-14
Updated: 2018-06-12
Packaged: 2019-01-17 10:49:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12364077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/svmmerborn/pseuds/svmmerborn
Summary: There's more to the story than the eight pages alone.





	1. the quiet caucus

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LadyMonoceros](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyMonoceros/gifts).



> I was inspired to get back to this story by LadyMonoceros! After reading her work, I decide to put 3 years of my universe-building process into good use and flesh out a readable story lmao. 
> 
> AO3 is such a great place to read stories - not so much to post because of the interface. I fiddled with it a bit and know literally nothing but how to tag and post, so... help would be so, so appreciated.
> 
> Cheers! If any of you are on Wattpad, this story is up there too!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The dark of the woods hides many secrets, one of them is a cult directed by an otherworldly entity. Silver, a non-binary, is a member of said cult. In this particular event, they find themself caught in the midst of an oncoming storm.  
> Also included are descriptions of said cult and a central figure to the cult's operation. No, not the faceless one. 
> 
> They/them pronouns are used for Silver, in case anyone finds this confusing.

 

They convened at midnight, once a full, pale moon, deep inside the empty bowels of the western forest, where the air was as cold and still as something lifeless and the trees spoke in tongues. They gathered in baker's dozens: people and non-people; men, women and those that went by none – all cloaked in solid, fine black.

The formal wear was not for fancy. Moonlight was notorious for causing disruptive behaviors among some at the Caucus. And there were those who would much prefer a nice amount of anonymity. Those like Silver, for example. With their map-scarred fishskin and eyes as red as a raw rabbit's heart, it was no surprise they had rather taken to the untelling, velvetine black of the Order's ceremonial garbs right away. Pressed against Silver, it told them to keep to themself, and nothing else, and they were more than happy to conform.

That was what the Order demanded, first and foremost. Conformity. The Caucus was obligatory attendance for every member unless expressly pardoned. Tasks were assigned regularly: for new initiates, to bolster faith; for the seasoned, more grisly obligations with dubious benefits. Confidence was vital; should one expose the existence of the Order, accidental or not, rest assured that they would be dispatched, posthaste, along with any poor souls that happened to be involved. Every single one. The Order has a way with things that you'd think was supernatural. Which was not a wrong assumption by any means.

Yet no one had, and Silver had observed, felt especially threatened by the Order's strict demands. Because what you give is what you get. In return for devotion, the Order offers tolerance, security, something almost akin to amity, and if you're lucky, approval – from a Higher Being.

Almost like a God, but not quite, they call Him – capital H – the Operator. Of course, only the inner-Order crowd address Him with this title of worship. Those who came by hearsay know of Him as der Ritter, The Tall Man, The Faceless, or, in common folklore turned urban legends, the Slenderman. A strange, otherworldly being with improbable height and spindly limbs, He walked the human realm among the trees and the streetlights, shrouded in mystery and inhuman elegance. Witnesses to His existence often recalled sightings of a man swathed in formal black, sleek, brisk and deathly cold. And a face– _no_ , it was not there. The man, the creature, had no face. None that anyone could remember, none that they'd recognize. In fact, most were insistent that it was but blank canvas stretched across a humanoid skull, and when they attempted a closer look, there was nothing but static.

From times ancient, the Slenderman had inspired many cults and beliefs. None of them were true to His name, however, except the Order. The Order was a direct manifestation of His designs, a way with which He could manipulate human beings, to tamper with Fate to His own advantage. The Order had been in operation for millennia, yet it had only been heard of passingly in ancient writings and tales as old as time. Der Ritter preferred His chess pieces craftily selected to ensure the Order performs satisfactorily the deeds He desired. Suffice and survive, quote a high-level member once.

There were many divisions of the Order throughout the world, but the woodland ones were the first to receive direct and precise instructions, with which they processed into schemes, delegating tasks to members to achieve desired outcomes. There was extortion, there was murder; there were also some mind-bogglingly strange missions that leave questions unanswered and loose ends untied. To which the Order had advised the opposite of curiosity, remaining that the Operator was neither to understand nor inquire about. As were any Gods of any man in any era, the Operator knew of matter beyond human comprehension, of minute intricacies beyond space and time, that His knowledge spanned across eras and worlds unknown, that any directives from Him were not to be questioned, only carried out, and succeeding in which. The only difference between His followers and people wearing crosses filling up a small town church was that He talked back to them. Frequently. Some had had the privilege of seeing Him in substance. And the lucky few had surrendered their human vessels to His control, a position of envy within the Order.

There were former religious zealots among those in black garbs at the Caucus today. Their stories ran a similar vein. They had given up everything in their search for the Answer, and it had led them here. Others came with varying intents. Some were shunned amongst their people. Some were afraid of what they were capable of. And some had lost everything they had ever held dear, left with nothing, no one and no justifications of the cruelty of Fate, but with pitless despair and an anger so blinding it took them by the hand and walked them down the winding spiral of lunacy. All of them, however, were looking for something.

Those who could not find it in their reality, came to the Order. Here, there was place for the forgotten, the damned, the repulsed; there was place for everyone.

As long as you uphold your part of the deal satisfactorily, of course.

Strange lights disrupted Silver's train of thought. They turned and saw grey wisps flaring in close vision, their illuminations made every shadow dance in rite-like movements, fluid and agitated at the same time. The black-garbed mass had also roused themselves, forming lines facing each other, whispers extinguished like embers on the tongues. A man stepped into their midst. He had on him a blank mask that denoted in black only a pair of hollow sockets and mouth, and he spoke, voice sweet and dangerous like a copperhead's smile.

Masks were marks of distinction within the Order, reserved for those titled Proxies. It was so they wouldn't think of themselves as human.

"Welcome to the Midsummer Caucus, Enclave Number 9. Shall we commence?"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Silver heard about _the girl_ once. Only spoken outward in the higher circles of the Order, she was something of a myth, inside a myth. Not much was known about her, and the Order actively advised against seeking information, but everyone who had been here long enough would be aware of the reference. Caucasian, small-ish, with a peculiar disposition and problems behaving human, she featured prominently in many of the Order's more secular, confidential missions. Silver had taken a wild guess that the missions concerning her were not of exterminating intents, otherwise she would not have survived as long as the hearsay circulating around her. Some had begun to suspect that, in one way or another, the Order was keeping her alive. In fact, one of Silver's more established associate had hinted at how long she had remained in the Order's priorities: forty-something years. Which puzzled Silver as to why she was still referred to as the _girl_ , which suggests tender age, and not something akin to "lady" or even "woman". They came to the conclusion that _the girl_ was more something of a moniker, an allusion that everyone could recognize without having to elaborate.

During Silver's stay as a member of the Order, however, not once was her existence confirmed before anyone. They had put it down to their low position within the Order, which they were satisfied with, having only to do odd jobs of putting people down now and then. Until now.

"Brethren, your work is needed in this particular case. It concerns a remarkable figure, and it concerns all of us."

The masked host had approached Silver at the death of the Caucus, his voice soft but laced with steel. He put a hand on Silver's left shoulder, and where he touched burned.

The two stood in a slice of moonlight, conversing. Mostly the Proxy. Silver listened.

"Confidence is crucial in handling this one. So would be perseverance. You will also need to be watchful and quiet. Keep your head down. Make acquaintance, but keep a small profile. This job involves you transferring directly to a designated location, the coordinates of which will be revealed later, but keep in mind that this transfer is long-haul, and does not guarantee a return. You have limited time before being picked up by the Relocation team. Refusal is not an option. In the name of the Operator, I wish you the best of luck."

Silver had thought they were being terminated. It wasn't until now, as they sit alone, quiet in the dark of their filthy one-person bedroom in the outskirt of Gladestown, North Carolina, that they finally understood what was given unto them, and the only outcome this would bring.

The girl had to die. There was no other conclusion.


	2. edge of nowhere, north carolina

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we are introduced the protagonist, May Rosewood. On her grandmother and sole legal guardian's order, she was to spend the rest of the summer up on Watcher's Cabin, the house that belongs to the Gauss family, who are wardens of the Westwood forest. After surviving bus ride to hell, she was picked up by the Gauss' only son, Ansel, who turns out to be her long-lost childhood friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually wrote this ahead of the last chapter! Was thinking of scheduling the post until sometime later, but it turns out I don't do sensible scheduling very well.
> 
> Enjoy this one, it's a more light-hearted read than the last lmao. Crits are warmly welcome.

 

.ii 

**edge of nowhere, north carolina**

 

 

If this had been a memoir, a diary even, any writing in the first perspective, May Rosewood would have been considered an unreliable narrator. Not that the girl was a compulsive liar. She was problematic, for sure, but she had no problem with telling the truth. Point is, her truth is a stretch. Warped, one could say. That might have to do with the fact that she saw things that weren't there. Or maybe they were the things that were there, only no-one sane could see. Regardless, May would make a compelling author, unreliable narrative and whatnot, had she had the time to finish her diary.

For now, the hefty leather-bound volume lied atop her lap, amongst the crinkles of heavy floral skirt and topped with a ballpoint that rattled unsteadily side to side. It was an especially rickety bus, this one, and being cramped between the next passenger and her own Victorian-era steam-train luggage did not make the ride more comfortable for May at all. The fact that it was a window seat was no more rewarding than it was helpful. In fact, the girl was fighting an uphill battle with motion sickness, and by the looks of it, she was about to lose and fast.

"Warden's Grounds in five minutes," the bus driver announced, a dry, guttural sound that only nicotine-scorched lungs could make. He threw a quick, piteous glance behind at May, who somehow managed to pale two shades lighter than her usual complexion, then shrugged and said to no one in particular. "Be'er hold it in, girlie; just got the lady hosed down last week."

The "lady" in question, of course, was the decade-old multi-wheeled public vehicle they were riding on, and not the decades-old literal one drooling on May's shoulder as we speak. Normally May despised, and actively fight against, being touched, let alone having the responsibilities of an entire head slumped onto her in a position of stress, but at the moment she was too distracted trying not to throw up to be noticing any additional dilemmas.

A sudden bump over something – possibly roadkill – jerked the whole bus population upwards. The old lady responded minimally, albeit having knocked her head visibly hard against her unfortunate next-door passenger's bony shoulder. If someone came up in an ambulance and tell her the dear old lady was dead for hours May would have believed it. Death was better than having to sit through this gas-powered, 29-miles-per-hour of pure purgatory.

The bus avoided no potholes it could have avoided, and May's fists whitened on and off at the knuckles on as she gripped onto her journal and pen, desperately holding on for dear life. Her ears were ringing like a first-generation Nokia, and she swore that she could felt her brain sloshing about in its brain-juice, playing patty-cake with the walls of her skull.

Half-delirious, the girl's mind started to drift to her fellow passenger, the old woman who was causing half of her distress. With that tousled white hair, the knit cardigan and the weird eyeglass chain, she reminded her of her grandmother. 

Which was not a sweet sentiment, because May did not get on well with her grandmother. At all.

January Rosewood was a peculiar person. If 'peculiar' means 'temperamental, nit-picking, authoritative and frankly downright scary' that is. She wasn't very popular with the kids, the middle-aged adults faked politeness at her, and her retired peers avoided her altogether. 

And May was stuck with her. As an orphan whose parents perished in a car crash when she was a wee child, Granny Jan was May's only remaining relative and legal guardian for the last fifteen years plus. May knew she should be grateful she had someone by her side at all, but if she got to choose, she'd rather anyone but Granny Jan. Sure, the old woman worked an honest job, paid her taxes, went to church every Sunday, didn't smoke, drink, or beat up her kid with a walking stick, but she wasn't the most supportive and/or considerate person either. 

That May resented a lot. Hell, if anyone was to blame for putting May through suburban Charybdis, it was Granny Jan.

As per tradition of adults in charge, Granny Jan often did a lot of things on her own accord that May didn't get to fit a word in, especially matters that directly involved her granddaughter. This summer she'd decided that May was grievously unfit and needed fresh air, and how coincidental it was that an old friend of her who lived upon the forest's edge was falling ill and in need of a hand around the house. So, before May knew it, two and two were put together and she was already shoved onto an express bus heading straight down Edge of Nowhere, NC. To make matters worse, Granny had refused to pack any of May's library picks, on the account of them being "too chunky" for a traveling train case that could fit a whole literal grown man, choosing to cram it with ten dozen clothing articles of varying categories instead. Skirts took up the majority, however. Granny Jan happened to love seeing good god-fearing little girls in ankle-length skirts ("that's the way it should be!").

Well, May was neither too good or god-fearing herself, but she _was_ little, and could fit in one of those ridiculously stiff garbs at the very least. She had never cared much for fashion anyway, as long as she could walk comfortably in whatever was put on her.

Which was not the case with this particular skirt, May realized as soon as she rose up for her stop.

"Warden's Grounds, folks!"

But there was no time to waste, especially when she was about to get off hell on wheels. So May bit her tongue and tried to make the gauntlet-run as gracious and non-falling-on-her-face as possible. In awkward movements she lugged her suitcase out the aisle and dragged (the damn wheels broke off some 15 years ago) it to the soon-to-open pneumatic door, praying for the first time in weeks to not make a fool of herself anymore than what the attire and the gait had made her.

And then, suddenly God was real. May made the trip, a damn near miracle, and mentally thanking whichever deities oversee public transports profusely, she stepped off the bus in a triumphant stride.

May regretted celebrating prematurely.

The monstrous suitcase wobbled violently at the edge of the top step. For a breathless second, however, it stopped, standing still, all but innocuous. Then the entire thing bodily toppled over, gliding with a passion down the rest several steps, like a brakeless car right atop a San Fran vertical lane. May made a mistake trying to grab it, and slipped. In a split second, she saw her life flashing before her eyes, and also gravel. Good quality sand-paper gravel, with extra sprinkles of chippings, just in case.

"Whoa, careful!"

In the blink of an eye, May was caught. Neatly, and thankfully not by gravel, but by a pair of firm hands. She pushed away on immediate contact. If there was something she'd rather take gravel over, it would be unsolicited human touch. Even if it was the only thing saving her from literal gravel-eating. Actually, she'd sooner drown in a cold dead river before letting a man in wet undershirts hefting her back onshore by the shoulders, thank you very much. Just _think_ about it.

"Sorry," May shuddered involuntarily, her voice hoarse and hollow to her dismay. Nope, let's try that again. She coughed, wetting her cracked lips, gathering necessary spit to saturate her vocal cords. Then with dramatic determination:

"Sorry. For falling on you like that." After a thought, she added, uncertain. "Although you did kinda save my life, so, thanks?" For good measure. Yes.

The man's smile grew with each word. He had a headful of bouncy brunette curls that framed an equally hairy but well-kept face. He was a sensible dresser, in the keen fashion sense that only true artistic icons and romantic maniacs could have: a thick burgundy coat over layers of sweatshirts, with Kusama-patterned chemise collars poking out from underneath. His neck, in turn, was wrapped in gentle breezy fabrics in Van Gogh yellow – probably the lightest material to have manifested on his body. In the midst of flourishing summer with all the heat and humidity, he was an absolute madman of commendable courage and flair.

"No need to fuss," the well-but-over-dressed man laughed. He had a haughty but infectious laugh. "You're a much better catch than that old dead bus, anyway. Thank God I wasn't going anywhere."

May opened her mouth for a retort, but a smile appeared in its place as it dawned on her who she was talking to. The man had a missing front tooth. It was the left one.

"Ansel? Is that you?"

"Larger than life." Ansel replied with a grin.

May had to mechanically blink several times to make sure that her eyes did not deceive her. They did not, but in turn her brain wasn't sure how to process. So she tried the new method of grounding her doctor had taught her. It was the year 1996 and the time was two-twelve in the afternoon, and standing before May was the same boy that, ten years ago, had his front tooth knocked out by his father for playing house with five-year-old May Rosewood. Ansel had been such an emotionally strangled little soul back then, speaking in broken dialect and living with a father who believed in the belt and medieval patriarchy, and a mother who never came home from her shopping trip.

Grown-up Ansel, as he stood before her, bore almost nothing of that little boy she could remember. He was moderately tall and fit, with a relaxed but confident stance of a true adult who had made it in life, with a content smile radiating about him. The missing tooth remained, nevertheless, and also a deep scar that ran the duration of his cheekbone. There was a story behind that scar, and that story involved his own father and an axe. Troubled times.

May subconsciously reached out to touch the scar, a sudden movement that made Ansel step back with a wary look, so she realized what she was doing and stopped.

"It's really you," she said, more confirming it to herself than to anybody.

"Aye, it's me," Ansel's smile grew back. "In the flesh. Did you think I was dead?"

May would be lying if she had denied having thought that at least once in her five years of losing contact with Ansel. "Probably," she said off the top of her head. "I mean," with a noncommittal shrug.

Ansel made an amused sound. "Well. Not until I pick you up safe and sound, then drop you off with my papa's dad. Which is my grandfather, in case you miss it. Trust me, he's a lot easier to handle than the other guy. Now come on." He motioned May to follow. She stood her ground.

"You dress like a cold reptilian." May pointed out.

"You dress like your parents. Like the dead."

A lapse in banter occurred as Ansel doubled over, laughing at his own joke.

"That one wasn't even funny," May said, trying her best to comically deadpan, semi-succeeding.

"Sorry, Batman."

May shot him a glare, but she could feel the corner of her lips curving upwards. Adult Ansel was a smartass. She liked the guy. Not many grown-ups were as fun to talk with. She was glad Ansel was an anomaly.

"Anyway," Ansel coughed, easing his laughing fit by running an absentminded hand through his brownie locks. "I was not kidding about the picking you up part. I gave my word long time ago that I finally get off my ass and do something good for the family for a change, and now that that turned out to be collecting some kid from the bus stop and putting up with her for the rest of summer, I'm willing to make the sacrifice. And probably ease up on the complaining," he added after a small chortle.

"Ansel. You called me 'some kid'. We played house and sat on swings together at age five and eleven. We were inseparable. We were _friends_."

"Oh, _friend_ , I'm sure you'd be a _blessing_ to have around the house," Ansel said in mock television housewife voice. "Said me, 'cause you would be babysitting pops for me while I be out of town for the week."

May raised a protesting finger, to which Ansel tut-tutted over. "Any claims or gripes," he drew a sharp zipping motion over pursed lips, "you take it to your grandma. It was her bright idea that you learn how to take care of people. Now, we proceed to the domicile. On foot. And you're on your own with that Davy Jones' locker of yours. I'm not taking my chance with anything that's big enough to fit a dead body."


	3. the house that breathes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Ansel loped May's suitcase off the cliff on her instruction. May reminisces about her parents, and asked about Ansel's. His answer spooked the hell out of May, who later on has nightmares about it.

 

.iii

 **the house that breathes**  
  


The date was June 26th, 1996. It was a Wednesday, summer was in its glorious prime and the back of May's neck was scorched beyond salvation. She had put her hair up in a futile attempt to de-heat, forgetting that they were walking in the direct course of the sun, and thus, suffered accordingly.

"Ansel," May said, voice flat, limping a little in her church shoes that were in no way comfortable for the hill climb, "Do you have an umbrella. Because reasons."

Ansel, who had had enough on his hands trying to make a suitcase the size of a small mammoth move uphill, replied inbetween strained breaths. " _No_ , May."

"Alright. Just asking." May mumbled, slipping off her hair tie. A waterfall of dry, semi-kempt hair wooshed out, like each individual strand was sentient and they all hate each other with a passion. In the waxed sunlight, her hair took the colour of overdone caramel, and probably smelled super burnt, too.

She stood and watched Ansel's fight with her century-old heirloom carry-all for a full minute, before finally saying out loud, "Maybe we should take a break."

That put Ansel off his stroke. He turned around to say something, but slipped his grips on the worn handle of the suitcase. As if on cue, the thing bodily rolled down the hill with the speed and mass in motion of a hungry wildebeest.

May watched as it rolled past her, leaving a trail of dust and grass particles in its wake. When she looked up, Ansel was doing this thing with his hands that read, _What the fuck, May_.

She shrugged. "I wasn't quick enough to catch it."

"So you- You just-"

Ansel threw his hands up in a defeated gesture. "You know what, it's fine, I'll get it. I'll get it for you. Take five, or whatever. Hell, take ten, I don't care."

May thought that Ansel looked a bit vexed. She wasn't the best at recognizing facial expressions, but she did catch on that if Ansel stopped smiling, if his usually upturned mouth had straightlined even for a bit, that probably means he was concerned and/or bothered. She knew she should share the sentiment and say something nice to him. That was what the doctor said anyway.

"Good luck," was all she could think of. Ansel's response was an exaggerated shrug.

May sat down quietly on the edge of a nearby smoothed rock that people have probably used for sitting on a number of occasions, and diligently worked on unlacing her antique mary-janes. These were also hand-me-downs from ages unknown, and they fit with a struggle. Albeit being half a size larger, May had these tiny feet that the Rosewood women often had, according to Granny, and according to the few pictures she had of her mom.

The surviving photos of April Rosewood-Vikander weren't much: sepiaed polaroids worn at the edge that etched a blurry figure of a woman in late teens, small but proud, with an independent stance and clothes that were much too progressive for her era and for the Rosewood family. In the ones that had her friends, she was more radiant than any, beaming with life even when viewed through lenses of lifeless black-and-white, more alive after her death than her daughter could ever be.

April Rosewood had always been somewhat of a mythic creature in May's mind, with grace, vivacity and beauty beyond any living person May had ever seen. There were close-ups of her face that were enough proof, and the activities depicted in most of the photos were generally festive and dynamic, like the one labeled "Court Duties! Tennis L'Oeuf" or the other one which read "Student Council Picnic Shuttlefest! in which Av decimated Prez. J".

May thought those were hilarious, for sure. But the photo she liked the most was vastly different from the rest. It was a quiet shot that captured April, in modest white and a pensive mood, standing at the edge of the woods. Her body seemed calm, unperturbed, hands at her side and small, shoeless white feet. Her gaze, however, was somewhere else. She had half of her face away from the camera, her mouth slightly open, as if talking to someone, and her eyes were wide, doe-like, lost among the trees.

The scene spoke something to May emotionally. Perhaps it was the rare, introspective side of her mother's personality she could not tell from any of the other photographs. Perhaps it was the fact that May, too, often found herself inexplicably drawn to the dark, forbidding beauty of the woods, the one that surrounded her neighborhood and wrapped Gladestown in an arboreal embrace. Perhaps it was nothing, but May knew she had hold dear to that picture since the day it was shown to her. Anywhere she went, she'd brought it along. It was like having around a piece of her mother, and it warmed her from the inside.

On the other hand, May never knew about her father.

May pulled off her frayed socks and stuffed it in the cavity of her shoes, then threw both things onto the rock beside her, bare feet digging into the warm, dry earth, pointy grass blades scratching at the sides of her ankles. Ten feet away from her, Ansel was semi-wrestling the suitcase just to put it back upright. Which was impossible now that the wheels were crooked in different directions and the handle snapped off.

May watched this scene with detached concern for 30 seconds longer than she should, before finally speaking up.

"Maybe we can push it off the hill and call it a day?"

Ansel looked up, alarmed to say the least. "What?"

Damn. May realized belatedly that her words sounded crazy, even to her. She hopped off the rock, strode over to him in quick steps, thinking of ways to justify her completely harebrained suggestion somehow.

"I mean," May threw the words around in her mouth a bit, drawing squiggly lines in the air with her index finger, "We don't have to bring this thing with us? I can take a bundle of these clothes with me? We can just leave it and get to it later, and here's perfect because no one goes up here, right? Also it's steel-framed – the barrel at least – so no matter what you do with it, it won't crack and whatever's in there should be fine. Not that there's a lot in there, per se, it's just clothes and... some hygiene stuff. I mean, if you don't feel like pushing it off the hill –"

May stopped herself before she launched into incoherent rambles. "You know. Just being the smart one and thinking outside the box," she concluded with a flush and held her breath.

Her arguments were all over the place, but Ansel seemed semi-convinced. His facial muscles relaxed, but he wasn't without concern. "Won't your gramps take issue?"

To which May smiled and shrugged nonchalantly. "Boy, I am the issue."

"Fair enough." Ansel chortled, whipping off his neckerchief. "Go get your stuff."

May kicked the suitcase over sideways gently, lest it rolled off the hill again into oblivion, snapping off the rusty locks. The case opened with a groan on its unoiled hinges, revealing its contents, which was not much, but May gathered an armful anyway. She made sure that she got the comfortable summer clothes out first, then the ones she wore on the regular, and bade 'screw it' to the rest. She wasn't about to spend the whole rest of the summer in skirts that went all the way down her heels, thank you very much.

May sealed the suitcase back up and looked to Ansel. "All done," she patted it invitingly.

"Great. Stand aside a lil'."

With a small "huf!", Ansel heaved the suitcase on its back, ready to roll it off the rock's edge.

"Safe sailing," he said as he gave it a little, final, push. The suitcase wobbled for a second, uncertain if it should plummet an approximate six hundred meters of incline.

Then the second passed as May rolled up her skirt and gave it a helpful, decisive, kick.

The two watched as the thing tumbled down the grassy hill merrily, vanishing out of sight.

"I wish it'd make an avalanche," Ansel said.

"I wish it was literally one degree cooler," May replied.

"That's sensible," Ansel admitted. "Come on, let's get to the house. I need a drink."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

They reached Watcher's Cabin as the sun rolled smoothly off the hill. Dying lights was rougeing the horizon a calm red, and everything looked like a warm, glowy dream, the kind you have in summertime. The forested hills behind the Cabin reminded May of rounded marking stones in a cemetery, overgrown with soft moss and a distinct scent of earth and subtle decay. She closed her eyes and imagined the feeling of running her hand over an arched headstone, the moss damp and yielding under bare fingers, the texture foreign but lush. A small chill ran down her spine, like electric. She lifted a hand and ran it down her neck to dispel the tingling sensation. She could already felt fresh spots of freckles popping up under her touch.

Ansel walked beside her, making sure she kept with his pace. He was holding in one arm the bundle of clothes May'd stole from the suitcase earlier. Despite May's protests, he'd tossed a lightweight coat drawn from the bunch at her, insisting that she throw it over her head ("the sun's the enemy, Rosewood") and proceed to carry her stuff himself.

"We're here," Ansel said, pointing to the horizon.

May's gaze landed on the lone construction on top of the hill. It was not as much an eyesore on the landscape as May had envisioned. Watcher's Cabin was built entirely out of wood, bricks, and stone, and rather handsomely assembled in the sense of antique country houses. It was three stories tall with an additional attic, the exterior overran by ivy and various types of climbers. As the wind picked up, vine-leaves would flutter, like spooked butterflies caught in spiderwebs and their own short-living despair.

May thought the house looked like it was breathing, the kind of breath one takes on their deathbed. She wondered if its tenant was in similar conditions.

"Is your granddad doing ok?" May asked as they neared the Cabin, hands behind her back, fingers twisting together. The grey mesh coat hung loosely from her shoulders, tie together at the sleeves like a cape. It billowed behind her in beckon with the highlands wind.

With one hand, Ansel plucked from inside his jacket's lining a half-empty pack of Marlboro and a matchbox, "Who, pops? Yeah, he's good. Been having nightmares, though. Almost nightly. And it follows him when the sun's up, too. I was in the kitchen making myself a goddamn sandwich when it'd happened. Something'd been knocked over and when I'd checked on him, he'd be in the midst of a clusterfuck of broken stuff, bawling his eyes out till he'd keeled over. Said something about men in suit coming after him, whatever. Y'know, senile people stuff."

He popped a thin stick into his mouth, wholly indifferent about the relatively unsettling bulk of ominous information he had just relayed. "Don't worry about him so much," he grinned, patting May on the head like she was a toddler who'd just been enlightened on the basis of aerodynamics. "He's getting better these days. Found him a doctor in the city who knows what drugs he needs. Sleeping pills, mostly, but the special sort. Gives you one of those sunless dreams, you know. You wake up remembering nothing, like a void creature had snapped its jaws and ate at your sleep. I guess, in a way, that's enviable."

With cigarette still in mouth, Ansel blew off the curl of hair that had been hanging idly in front of his face. "Oh, hey, before we come in. Can you light this up for me?"

He slid May the matchbox he was holding. It was heavier in her hand than she'd imagined, the flint coarser than an ex-lover's heart as she ran her thumb over it. She shook the box open. It was full of used matches, some even burnt to a crisp and had powdered off into grey ashes. Among them were colourless petals of a wild sort, and herbs that had dried out and soaked into the matches, staining them a shade of mossy green. It was a potpourri of miscellaneous ephemerals, stowed away in this little box like a small, forgotten world.

Taking care not to spill any of its contents, May fumbled to find a match that was just barely usable, and struck it against the flint. The second time brought sparks. Soon, a baby fire was dancing in the palm of her cupped hand, warm, but precarious. She held it out like an offering.

" _Thanks_."

As Ansel leaned into the light, harsh shadows fell in the hollow of his face, ridges that were much too sharp and haggard for a 19-year-old boy. The scar on his cheek shone like lightning before a dry storm.

Against better judgment, May found herself asking, "Where's your father, Ansel?"

For a moment, Ansel's eyes grew dark. Around the end of his cigarette, the fire bloomed, glowing ember petals unfurling with alarming vigour. The light caught in his depthless eyes like an inferno.

Then he pulled away and the light was gone.

" _Funny you should ask_."

With deft motions, Ansel plucked at the fire flower. It went off like a slain firefly. In the light of the evening just bright enough for May to delineate the harrowing edges of his figure, Ansel seemed so foreign, far away, and all alone. Even when he was within arm's reach. Even when May was standing right beside him.

A coldness grabbed at her heart, suddenly.

Ansel was quiet, for a full minute. Then he took a deep drag, and exhaled in a hiss. Each word that left his mouth was entangled in curls of smoke, as ravenous as a serpent's ball.

"He's been dead since I was twelve, May."

That night at Watcher's Cabin, May's dreams were heavy, and they were chasing each other like horned beasts under a yellow-bellied sun.


	4. ||white lights

  
  
  
_The time was 3:33 a.m. and May was out in the dark._

 

_Alone._

 

_In a thin nightgown, barefoot._

 

_She had no recall of how she'd got here, nor how long had she been, nor what she was wearing. She did not feel especially bothered by the cold, the darkness, or her lapse in memory._

 

_A tinny sound filled the air, like the quiet hummings of a world machine. Directly in front of her, a bus stop appeared, seemingly out of nowhere. It was a rusty-looking old waiting station,_ completed _with a domed enclosure_ grimey _with time. One end was dimly illuminated by icy white lights. Lights that came from above._

 

_The longer she looked, the more May was transfixed by the white lights._

 

_~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~_

 

_The lonely street lamp stood, a lean and stark_ existence, beside _the waiting station. Its neck was craned. The tip of the branch bore a single, bright beam of light, which flickered on and off, on and off, on and_ off in _irregular intervals._

 

_The steely white light that dripped out from the lamp seemed almost tangible, with an aspic congealment and a slight throb to it that reminded May of heartbeats._

 

_Ba-dump. Ba-dump. Ba-dump._

 

_In between heartbeats, May saw a silhouette of a stag beneath the light._

 

_It was gone the next time her eyes snapped open._

 

_~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~_

 

_May made her way to the station, but the more steps she took, the further the lights seemed._

 

_The more she pushed forward, the less real she felt. As if reality had grown four legs and was running away from her grasp._

 

_Legs. May did not feel hers. She could felt movement, but no responses from lower limbs._

 

_Maybe her legs were never there, to begin with._

 

_The road before her continued to stretch and stretch, like a somnolent cat at dawn._

 

_She ran to it with eyes squeezed shut._

 

_~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~_

 

_At last._

 

_May was standing in the illumination of the streetlamp. Lights bled around her, weighing on her shoulders like a condemned soul._

 

_The light had stopped blinking. Stark against the darkness, like a lidless stare, it bore into the cold, hard ground underneath. Into the girl who stood in its way._

 

_May looked down and saw her feet for the first time. They were bloodied and_ bruised, _like she had walked on glass and gravel._

 

_They did not feel pain._

 

_~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~_

 

_Emerging from the dark was something she couldn't understand._

 

 

_Something tall, thin, serene. Garbed in smooth darkness. Weaving through the night in movements that both unsettle and mesmerize._

 

 

_A near perfect human imitation._

 

 

_It walked towards her, calmly, on legs of improbable height, bearing the hypnotizing aura of an apex and ancient creation of omnipotence. As if it had been here at the beginning of time, and would be, at the very end._

 

 

_It wasn't until it came into the fallout of the lights did May realize that the creature had no face._

 

 

_With an eyeless gaze, it stared right through her, stark, impassive and relentless; and for the first time in forever, May felt fear running cold in her veins._

 

 

 

 

_~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~_

 

 

 

_The tinnitus in May's head grew, louder and_ louder, _until her entire head was spinning with white noise._

 

 

 

 

_The creature continued to draw close._

 

 

 

 

_With each step it took, reality blinked._

 

 

 

 

 

_Pop. Pop. Pop._

 

 

 

 

 

_May could not tear her eyes away._

 

 

 

_She willed her legs to run, but they did not answer._

 

 

 

_The creature came within_ a feet _of her and May's lungs were no longer her own._

 

 

 

_She was staring into endless white. She could not turn away._

 

 

 

_All she could hear was deafening static, and it lasted and lasted, singing cursed, one-note rite songs of an undead, macabre language._

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_May opened her mouth to speak, to scream, anything -_

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_\- what came out was neither her words,_ _nor her voice._

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_"Hello, Operator."_

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	5. pretty little head

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> May looks at her mom's photo and is really considering that career option of hanging out in the woods for the rest of her life like some kind of forest wraith. She also has breakfast with Ansel and his grandfather. The day does not end well for anyone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song of the day is "Pretty Little Head" by Eliza Rickman! Listen here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c-vHEw5ocD4

.iv

**pretty little head**

 

Morning stung her eyes awake.

May sat upright in bed, drenched in sweat and groggy with fatigue. Her fingers were cold and numb, like new snow. She rubbed the sleep from the corners of her eyes with them and felt the inside of her lids burning.

Like she had been staring at white lights in her dream.

May bit her nails. It was not unusual. The girl had been having bad dreams ever since she could remember. Recurring nightmares. It was part of her illness; she had to take meds for it. But why did this one feel so real, so frightening, so particularly ominous that she could feel physical unease digging inside of her guts?

Like lightning before the storm, her grandma would say. Bad omens.

May shook her head, determined to not let it get the better of her today. She swiped a pill bottle on top of her nightstand and popped the cap. 

Inside, blue pills glared at her with a sterile gleam. One traveled down her esophagus cold and heavy, like dry ice. She wet her lips to get rid of the taste, but it stuck with her on the tip of her tongue and at the back of her throat.

May fought the urge to physically eject the pill from her system, instead focusing on her journal, which was lying on the bedside table as she reached for it.

The journal May carried was bound in cheap, fraying leather, with some spots torn and sagging creating secret pouches. With a careful finger, May teased from under the leather a polaroid, yellowed with time, and held it up to the morning light coming from her window.

The polaroid of May's mother remained the same no matter how many times she looked at it. An innocuous girl in blank dress propped against a slice of dark, gaunt woods, her hair wavy and tousled, her eyes soft but distracted.

How old was her mother when this photo was taken? 16? 17? She couldn't be much older than May was right now. And yet she was there among the tall trees, comfortable in her surroundings, even in solitary, arboreal darkness: the same darkness that town adults would keep away in fear.

May traced the negative space between the photographed trees with her finger, wondering if there was something out there in the woods, something that stretches its long limbs and grabs at you from behind the trees if you don't run fast enough.

She slipped the photo back safely between the covers and put the journal away, humming a catchy tune. The blue pill had kicked in and she had already forgotten about the nightmare. 

On her left, the windows were wide opened as soft highland winds kicked the curtains back and forth. Outside, everything was lemon-dipped: yellow, sweltering, acidic. It was the kind of weather that would guarantee her a fresh batch of freckles should she dare step foot outside.

But as she hopped to the window, marveling at the scenery beyond, May didn't care about freckling all that much. She could see the immeasurably vast greenness of Westwood Forest from here. It made her head spin with wonder, and had the town allowed it, May would have run barefoot into the furthest depths of the forest, just for the sake of curiosity.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

"Good morning," Ansel said jovially as May bounded down the stairs. "I made breakfast."

Indeed he had. The air smelled warm and buttery. It permeated the small but bright kitchen, and that filled May with fuzzy feelings she wasn't accustomed to.

"Morning," May said, making her way to the kitchen table. She was wearing a black Oasis tee from Goodwill, and pants so loose that she had to tie up with a ribbon to keep from dropping. 

She drew up a chair, a wonky, lime-painted furniture that looked like it belonged to a struggling woodcraft enthusiast, and settled in.

Someone was already at the table by the time she sat down. It was an old man, his hair and teeth both missing, a pair of glazed eyes flanking a droopy, humongous nose. A cat was purring on his lap, its inquisitive yellow eyes peeking from underneath the table.

"My grandfather, Mike," Ansel introduced as he tossed a flapjack into the air with expert accuracy. "You didn't get to meet him yesterday. So there he is."

Looking at Mike, May could understand why. Mike Gauss was, for the most part, out of it. He was unaware of his surroundings, unaware of the people around him, and May doubt that he even remembered who he was. She wove a hand in front of the old man. No response. He stared at her blankly, like deep inside a dream.

The cat, on the other hand, May had met. His name was Sunshine, and he was a precious jerk. May reached over to boop him on the nose and was rewarded with a disdainful meow.

"He likes you," Ansel chuckled, then shrugged. "Sunshine, I mean. Not sure about my grandpa."

May didn't know what to say to that, so she quietly drew a chair and sat down opposite the infirm old man.

The house cat, Sunshine, with fur black as the night, leaped over the table inquisitively. May leaned forward teasingly, inches away from his snout, hair falling over her face. A small laugh escaped her as she watched the cat pawing at her brown locks, his soft feet booping her nose.

"Good boy," May whispered to the cat, tickling him under the muzzle. Soft purrs emitted from the midnight creature, his yellow eyes eclipsed in content. 

The sizzling of the bacon on the stove was peaceful, and May drifted away from reality in a brief, sleepy moment.

Suddenly, Sunshine's eyes snapped open. His head swung to the side warily, and before May could react, the cat had already zipped past her shoulder and scuttled away.

When May looked up, the old man was staring right through her, his gaze unblinking. A chill ran up her spine, and her breath hitched in her throat.

It was the first time she had ever seen Mike Gauss so alive.

"There he goes," Ansel cut in unexpectantly, knocking a plate of sizzling bacon down the table. "Don't worry about that cat, he has feline ADHD or something. Must be the new cat food– hey," the dark-haired man wove a hand in front of her in concern. "What's wrong?"

May blinked. Over Ansel's shoulder, the old man had dropped his head and was gazing indefinitely again.

"Nothing," she said, like the bad liar she was.

"You look like you just saw a ghost," Ansel commented.

"Ghosts aren't real," May said defensively.

Ansel chuckled darkly. "That's what they tell ya." He pushed the plate in front of her, tone commanding. "Eat up, kid."

May stared at the greasy bacon stripes and runny egg still sizzling softly on her plate. Any other day she'd have killed for this kind of breakfast. Not today, though.

"I'm not hungry," she said, peeking warily at the old man seated in front of her, who apparently had fallen asleep.

"Not yet," Ansel winked.

That was when May smelled it in the air. A familiar scent of butter and bake, aromatic and sickeningly sweet.

Her nose perked up. "Is that waffle cooking?"

"And we have a winner," Ansel laughed, popping the lid of the toast machine to reveal perfectly baked waffles, round with square indents and as fluffy as a unicorn's dream. In a blink May was at the kitchen counter, fighting with him over the plate of heavenly golden treats.

"Your granny specifically told me not to spoil you with this," Ansel said, laughing at May, who was bouncing on on the tip of her toes trying to grab at the plate as he hovered it teasingly out of her reach.

"So I made two. I'm a rebel."

He finally relented and put the plate on the girl's head, at which point she snatched it instantly.

"And I'm insulted," May said, hopping back to her seat. "But you have waffles, so. Consider me appeased."

"You're welcome," Ansel said loudly over his shoulder, wiping his hands on his ridiculously frilly apron.

May didn't reply: she was already buried face-deep in waffles. And they were quality waffles, too. The batter was homemade, ripe with the taste of fresh eggs and butter. It reminded her of late-night drop-ins of 24/7 diners and noontime breakfasts in a hostel bar. Weird, because she had no memory of being in those kinds of place. It did not stop her from enjoying her breakfast, however.

"This shit," May said as she came up to take a breath, cheeks puffed out with food, "is divine."

"Language," Ansel chastised the girl. "But thanks. This guy's recipe, by the way." He gestured to his snoring grandfather, whose head was drooping to one side rather perplexingly.

As May cleaned up her plate, Ansel strode to the table and put down in front of his grandfather a deep-set dish of unknown ingredients and recipe. The smell was far from great. The food inside was a nasty bruised red in color, and it wobbled with an unsettling suspicion.

May swallowed her last of her waffle-cheek and silently thanked the gods she already finished eating before having her appetite ruined.

"Hey, pops," Ansel shook the old man's shoulder lightly. "Pops," Mike bolted awake with a sniffle, his toothless mouth gaping uncomprehendingly. His glazed eyes darted around in confused alarm, and for a moment May thought he had glared at her direction. She breathed out in furtive relief as he turned the other way.

"Hey," Ansel caught his grandfather's hand reassuringly, gently curling his knobby fingers around a slip-proof rubber-handled spoon. "Pops. Time to eat," he motioned eating from a spoon to his bewildered grandfather, all the while smiling supportively. "C'mon. Eat."

He repeated this gesture for several times until the old man finally nodded, and began to shakily transfer food to his mouth. At which point Ansel let out a deep sigh, and ran his hand through his tousled brown hair, looking at May in a way that spoke,  _hey, what can you do_.

"Old people," he said offhandedly. "Be glad your grandma is still up and about, May."

He picked up the kettle on the table and poured himself a cup. It was the darkest, heaviest, most aromatic coffee May have ever seen or smelt in her entire life: the kind of coffee that would kick her straight into systemic overdrive should she so much as take a sip.

Ansel downed the entire mug in one go. "Coffee?" He offered, smacking his lips.

May shook her head vigorously.

"Suit yourself," he shrugged, folding an entire pancake into his mouth.

May looked away as Ansel poured himself another cup of full-bodied caffeine. "I'm done," she announced, dropping off dirty plates into the sink.

Ansel "uh-huh" in response, distracted. He was working on something in a notebook that, as May stole a glance, appeared to be household bills and stuff. May hated math, and understood the mental distress one undergoes whilst crunching numbers, so she left him to his own devices.

She sat atop the kitchen counter, swinging her legs to a foreign rhythm, staring off into the distance. A song came to her head. It was a lullaby-esque verse that she'd heard over the radio, some time deep into the night, whilst doing her homework half-asleep. 

Late-night radio is weird. It's a medley of shows and songs that no-one would tune in for if they were broadcasted in the day. Which usually just means they are intolerably bad. Yet there was always that one song that'd catch your ear, that surreal melody that curls its diaphanous stave around you and put you to sleep with its warbling verses.

For her part, May couldn't recall if this song was real, or made up by her own mind on the verge of sleep. Still, the lyrics stuck in her head like a needle through a soft-bodied insect.

" _Hook, line, and sinker, drop it down to the bottom_ ," she sang to herself softly. " _Butterfly float, flicker, soar to the top_."

Her feet hovered above the plywood floor, and as she stretched them, they scraped the surface, just barely.

The floor, she noticed for the first time, was awfully scratched up.

" _Kill for the thrill, cut it, stick it where you got 'em_."

Her toenail traced a stark white streak that ran across the wood. It dragged across the floor heavily, like a scrape from a dull claw.

" _Circle rolling under, running red to the stop_."

The streak ended in a large dent that ate deep into the wood. 

Something was struck here.

Someone, perhaps.

" _Where's your mother?_ " May whispered, dropping off the counter. Though it was part of the lyrics, she was not singing anymore. She stepped into the dent, both of her feet fit inside the warped circular shape, and the most sickening thought rang through her like a lightning bolt.

The dent was the size and shape of a human head.

"Done!"

May jumped. Her eyes flicked to the dining table in alarm, and caught Ansel throwing down his pen in triumph, chugging down the last of his coffee. 

Meanwhile, May's heart was pounding in her throat. Her childhood friend, suddenly, did not seem so innocent anymore. Something was off about him, and about this house. This family.

The girl took several steps back, mind chased with thoughts. 

Didn't the Gauss mother disappear some twelve years ago? They said she left her family for another man, but no one at the station had ever seen her hopping a train out of town that day. It was a small town, nothing could slip past people's watch. Except when you live in a small house, on top of a small hill, at the edge of the forest. 

This house, to be exact.

And what about the father, Ansel's dad? Didn't Ansel tell her he was dead? How did he die? Why was no one in town talking about it? He was a strong, high-strung man, not a likely victim of heart diseases or sudden death. Then why did he, too, drop off the face of the earth like that? 

It was a small house, on top of a small hill, at the edge of the forest. It took a five-hour bus ride to get here from anywhere. The area was vast, full of shrubberies and malnourished vegetation. The incline was steep, and it was a long way down from the top. This was a house, quiet, bleak and dark, cut off from the rest of the world, a house where no one could hear you scream.

A house perfect for murder and body disposal at the same time.

May glared at the unassuming Ansel and felt a voice like a pinprick at the back of her head.

 _Murderer_ , the voice chanted. _Murderer_ , it hissed and shrieked.

She could envision it all in her mind. His soft curls, endearing in the golden lights, became the matted fur of some predatory animal. His fingers, long and boney, were adept weapons curling around someone's larynx; his swift long legs expert at catching up to his preys; his contagious laugh now almost demonic as he tripped his victims over with a swipe of his feet.

And his eyes would glow, a glare that belonged only to animals and madmen, pushed to the edge by their own carnal needs.

She moved, mechanically, as in a dream. There was a knife to her left, resting inconspicuously on the kitchen counter. The blade made a soft hiss as it slid smoothly off the wooden surface. Its handle slinked into May's hand, cold and unobtrusive as she concealed it behind her back.

Ansel got up from the table, visibly beaming. He tossed the notebook on to the counter next to May as he approached her unsuspectingly.

"All done. Man, I hate budgeting," he laughed, sliding off his frilly apron. "It's like third-grade math, except when you get to zero, you also get anxiety. Anyway, I'm thinking that there's a place we could go–"

His words reverberated in her eardrums, but May was not listening anymore. In her vivid imagination, the Gauss father was pinned by the throat down on the kitchen floor, his esophagus torn up, dripping red. Beside them, the mother lied unmoving, arms and legs all twisted, blood pooling around her bashed-in skull.

"– interesting. What do you think?"

May's fingers squeezed around the knife handle. Coldness was rushing side to side in her body like a wave. Everything was in slow motion. Everything was outdrowned by that voice in her head, growing as loud as the sound of thunder, seeping like poison under every inch of her skin.

 _Kill him_.

May's eyes flicked to the dining table, where the old man remained impassive, and she saw it again. A glare that chilled her to the bone.

 _Kill him before he gets to you_.

"Hey, is everything ok? Do you need-"

Slash.

May struck. Red ribbons of blood spurted out where the blade hit the skin, unraveling like a present. A yell zipped past her ears, but the maddened girl barely noticed. 

She swung again, but this time was caught by a vicelike grip. It twisted her arm sharply behind her back, and the sudden pain caused her to drop her weapon with a clatter.

She squirmed with her remaining arm to get free, but to no avail. May was no one's opponent, not even with a knife. In a moment the skinny girl was subdued, writhing on the kitchen floor. Her bloodied weapon lied next to her, glinting coldly.

May screamed like a wounded animal, kicking and biting, reaching for her knife, but it only took a dull blow to the back of her head for everything to turn black.


	6. ||the house, the woods, the pages

 

  
The girl awakened in a strange place, with strange memories.

 

She sat up, pulling herself close. She was lying on a wooden bed, lined with stained ivory beddings. Around her, the scene unfolded: a single-chambered log cabin that smelled of damp timber, barely furnished; the air a naked coldness that pierced.

 

Outside the paneless windows, the forest breathed quietly. Tongues of mist licked at the night, curling around the feet of tall, dark trees that rose high above and out of sight.

 

In the background, a faint, static hum that bleached softly into white noise.

 

The lights were dim, and they came from indeterminable sources.

 

The girl blinked. Everything looked theatrics. Like a lonely stage, lit by unseen overhead lamps, carved into existence in the belly of the woods.

 

The girl wondered if she was a spectator, a thespian, or a prop in all of this.

 

She stepped off the bed, the boards moaning as she moved. Her feet slid on the ground, and it made a strange, crisp noise that startled her, almost.

 

She looked down. The floor was strewn with scraps of notes. Some half-written, some blank. Some were blackened with such frantic handwriting and inkblots that they were not altogether legible at all. They paled the darkwood floor in a flurry of paper, like a gutted library. She plucked a wrinkled note from beneath her feet, holding it to the dim lights.

 

_**C AN'T RU N** _

 

It read curtly. Menacingly.

 

The girl frowned, chewing on her lips. Under her fingers, the next one implored.

 

_**D0N 'T L0 O K** _

 

And the next.

 

_**1T F OL L0WS** _

 

**_A LW 4 YS W 4TC H1N G_ **

 

**_N 0 EY 3 S_ **

 

**_I T TA4aKee3EeS_ **

 

**_B 3 H 1 ND Y 0U_ **

 

The girl stopped.

 

She had reached the other end of the room, having picked up every last piece of paper. The stack of notes weighed down her slim arm like guilt, and as she hovered over the final page, the static humming stopped dead.

 

Silence arrested the room. With the paper cleared away, the cabin felt empty now, like a blank dream. Or anything but. Something told her that she was not alone.

 

And that she should be very, very afraid.

 

The girl spun around in wary. In her left hand, the last page rustled, pale as a ghost. Bold letters bled through from the other side, but as she flipped the note over, its edges sliced her fingertips open with a hiss.

 

She jerked back in surprise, and the page slipped between her bleeding fingers to fall on the floor. There it lied, black ink smeared by red, running amok off the paper margins. Stark against the white, it crawled something almost incomprehensible.

 

_**HE 4 DSs55Ss U P** _

 

_Creak._

 

The girl snapped up, eyes wide.

 

There was a door on this side of the room, corroded and misshapen with time, carved into the wall that bore it like a rotten fetus. It kreened with ill omen as it swung open on the hinges, inch by breathless inch.

 

From behind it stepped a lank shadow with long limbs, swathed in abyssal black except its throat and face. A visitor from another nightmare.

 

The girl stumbled backward, tripped by fright. Thoughts sloshed around in her mind, but her body registered little, petrifying on the spot.

 

Craning its gaunt neck, The Operator gazed down at her, its face a smooth white void.

 

The girl stood, fixated. She could only watch as the creature extended a hand towards her, warped and white from beneath its nightshade garb. Its pale fingers were spindles, phalangeal and crooked at the joints, and they separated with a _crack_.

 

The girl's own veins were pushing against her skin. Something inside her pounded, soft, but conspicuous; a quivery sort of fascination, the adrenaline that coursed a rabbit's veins as it stared into the fox's tender, yellow teeth.

 

The creature moved like a caress, feathering the space between itself and the small girl, breathless. It brought a talon to the side of her face, a movement that took an eternity. As the sharp claw contacted her cheek, the girl could feel bone-dry oxygen squashing her lungs.

 

Calmly, almost adoringly, the claw raked against her skin, and in a moment frost pierced through her body like a cold spell. The stack of notes slid from her arms smoothly, like water off stones, its contents sloshing onto the ground in the manner of liquids, flooding her feet with an ocean pale.

 

Then she, too, unraveled, like ribbons, and fell to the floor as if made of paper.


	7. sugarcoats

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> May's back at home, with no memory or certainty of the manic episode she incurred last week. Kenna, her best and only friend drops by with cake. The dynamic between her and Grandmother is revealed, and it's not pretty.
> 
> Also in this chapter is a diverted narrative of a new, probably shady, probably not human character.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm baaack! Actually this chapter was posted long ago on Wattpad, but I've recently scratched it all off and started over. This AO3 version is more or less a back-up for reference purposes, a ghost of the original timeline I've prepared, so if there's any discrepancy in the future chapters, I'm super, duper sorry. Eventually I'll edit it to smooth out any plot conflicts but for now, welp.
> 
> After chapter 9, everything will slink into the new timeline, by the way. This one deviates just a little from the first, so I hope any crinkles caused by this won't be of major concern to the overall story!
> 
> Once again, thank you my one and only inspo/muse for keeping TWE alive! You know who you are! *wink wink*

When May opened her eyes again she was at home. _Home_ , home: in the heart of Gladestown, a brisk fifteen-minute walk to the town library and another twenty to the district school. Not far from the outskirts of the forest – not that she was ever allowed to go there, ever, that is.

She felt worn, fatigued, plagued by heavy sleep. Last week was a blur to her. Everything seemed but a long, feverish dream which she could not recall a single second of.

They gave her headaches, too, the memories. She would have to tell the doctor about this, no doubt.

May pushed the covers off her bed and slid down the hardwood floor, listening to morning sounds. Nothing out of the ordinary today. Birds chirping swarmed her ears. The cicadas were lively, no doubt. And the bike-bell rang, an urgent but merry note as she rolled down her ratty brown kneesock–

Wait. Bike-bell? That was new.

May hopped to the window one-sockedly, throwing the curtains open. There, on the street was a slight girl, decked in crisp clothes and a sunhat, resting on a bicycle.

The bicycle was brand-new. Teal-colored. The shade complemented the cinnamon-skinned girl well. It was definitely picked out for her. May knew this because Kenna wanted purple – she told May that explicitly. How'd May remember that and retained nothing of memory from last week? She had no idea.

The brunette looked up, and May instinctively ducked away. Too little too late.

"May Bee!" Kenna waved frantically at May through the window, swinging her sunhat around, pumping on the bell. "May! Yoohoo! I saw you!"

May groaned internally. Kenna Blaise was what people would call her friend. And she'd let them, because Kenna was a nice girl: smart, kind, tolerant, and tolerable. Most of the time, at least.

She pushed the glass pane up, reluctantly.

"Kenna!" May said, running out of things to say. "Um. Nice bike."

"Thanks, May Bee," Kenna replied, a huge grin eclipsing her face. Then she held up a white box. "I brought cake."

That caught May's attention.

"I'm coming, jeez."  
  
  


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Granny Jan was knitting something hideously mustard in her favorite sofa as May flitted past her in the living room.

"What's with all the commotion?" The old woman inquired, a hint of tired annoyance in her words.

"Just a friend of mine," May replied, unlatching the numerous locks on the front door. She half-expected Jan to be surprised. Her grandmother was always going on about how May had no friends, and May didn't feel like correcting her, either. She was about to be proven wrong.

"My _friend_ , Kenna," she repeated, just in case the old woman had trouble hearing. "You know. We hang out and stuff. Have lunch together. Help each other with homework."

Now was the moment. The big payoff. May halted at the door, waiting for a response.

January adjusted her specs. "You look lively today," she commented offhandedly before stalking off.

May shrugged. What was that supposed to mean?

"Um. Hello. Hi," Kenna squeaked through the crack in the door. "Can I come in, or is this a bad time?"

"Oh, right, sorry," May swung the door open, side-stepping to make entrance room for her friend. "My bad."

Kenna Blaise spilled into the room and was amazed by everything she saw. This was new territory for her, a white grandmother's living room. The wallpaper was bland, the furniture unexciting, but there were plenty of interesting knick-knacks.

She was especially enticed by January's weird collection of ceramic deer figurines, and the abundance of deer-related decoratives scattered across the house. "These are cuute," she said, dragging her vowels as she waltzed around the room, her twin braids dancing in the fluorescent lights.

May shrugged. She was more interested in the cake box Kenna had brought.

"You want some tea with that?" May asked, directing her friend's attention back to the cake.

"Oh, yes please," Kenna replied sing-songly. "Oolong, if you have it."

"Sure."

May ducked out of the living room on cue. Kenna was too much energy for her. And no, they did not have Oolong. Kenna would have to settle for jasmine, or whatever Granny had in her cupboard. May wouldn't know: she'd never tried it. It wasn't her cup of tea.  
  
  


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"Lively," May heard Granny Jan commented, again. The old woman was sitting at the kitchen table, peeling an orange. On the stove behind her, a boiling kettle hissed like a frightened cat. "How long have you two been friends?"

May contemplated the answer as she pulled a tin of dried tea leaves off the top shelf. She didn't reply, however.

"That girl's a Blaise, isn't she?" Granny persisted. "Good folks. Didn't deserve all the second-guessing they received when they set up business here."

May shut the cupboard door, a little harder than intended. She remembered when Granny had been unpleasant about the Blaises' arrival. They had that kind of effect, moving straight from New Orleans to in a predominantly white North Carolina neighborhood. Kenna was twelve at the time.

"She rubs off on you, you know," January continued, unaware of her grand daughter's displeasure. "What's her name again?"

"Kenna," May said, curtly, opening and closing all the cabinets. Where were the damn teacups when she needed them?

"Kenna, you sure? Not Mackenna?"

"It's Kenna." May repeated, voice almost spiteful. There they were, the teacups. The white china gleamed in her hand like polished bones.

"Well, Kenna, then. Not the most pious name for a girl, but I suppose it will do. At least it's not one of those hood n–"

_Crack._

May looked down at her hand and saw blood running. The cup had split in her hands, two clean halves separating like eggshells. She dropped the halves to the floor, where they shattered into a million more pieces. Droplets of red and shards of white, on black-and-white linoleum. A visual.

She looked at her grandmother, and back at the bloody mess. The old lady wore a blank stare, untelling. Neither of them said anything, for a while.

Then January broke the silence, whipping off her glasses and clipped them to the front of her blouse.

"Use the tea set in the living room," the grey-haired lady said, sauntering out of the room without so much as a look back.  
  
  


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"May Bee, what happened?" Kenna cooed worriedly as she spotted May's patched-up hand. "You cut yourself?" She cupped May's bandaged fingers between her tiny hands, as if doing so would hasten the healing process.

"Kind of," May said, pulling away awkwardly – she still couldn't stand body contact. "I broke a china."

Kenna shook her braids. "Oh boy. I can't leave you alone for a second, can I?"

May smiled, mostly to assuage her friend. "I survived half the summer without you, Kenna."

"Not for long," Kenna smiled back, almost mischievously. She plopped down the floral couch and cut the cake, having fought May for possession of the knife.

The cake itself was interestingly shaped, a half-way oval and diamond hybrid, generously frosted with sugar and sprinkled with colorful chips. It was rich, sweet, all over the place. If Kenna was a cake, this one would be her. Put on it a pair of round gold-rimmed glasses and they would be virtually indistinguishable.

"Oh, I made it myself," Kenna confided shyly as a flush rosied up her face. "Chocolate orange. You like those, right?"

May did, but then again, she liked all things sugar and would end up giving her a heart attack.

"I do. Thanks, Kenna, you're the best."  
  
  


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"So as I was saying Louis just passed his placement exam last week. He gets to skip more grades than my parents thought, just breezes straight into high school like that. He'll be attending Gibson High in the fall. Can you imagine it, May? Going to school with Louis?"

"Mhm," May muttered through a mouthful of cake, pretending to listen.

Louis was Kenna's adoptive brother. He was eleven, and a genius for his age. That was what Kenna told her, anyway. May had never met the boy in person, and she had a feeling she didn't really want to either.

"I'd say good for him. The teachers at our school are really great," Kenna continued, sipping from a delicate deer-patterned teacup. "Remember Mrs. Anand? We had homeroom with her for a while last year. She's really helpful. She talked me into running for a spot in the Student Council."

"Sounds like a blast."

"Yeah, a blasphemy. Turns out you gotta have a lot of extra credits to even be considered. Who made up this system, anyway?"

Before they'd realized it the cake had vanished. Bits of frosting and crumbs remained as a testament of its delicacy. May sighed, chewing her fork longingly. All good things must come to pass.

Next to her, Kenna traced the rim of her now-empty cup. "Wanna go to the library tomorrow?"

May's ears perked up. She loved the library. "Sure. Do you want recommendations? I think they're shipping in some George Orwell's, but next week– "

"Not to read, silly. I told you: I volunteered to help around," Kenna laughed.

She pouted as May turned away, interest gone. "Aww, don't make that kind of face," she said, pulling at her friend's cheeks. "It'd be fun, May Bee. I promise."

"Plus, we get to access all the other off-limit areas. You've always wanted to have a look that all those town history books right? We could sneak a peek once we got inside: I'm sure there's no harm in that. Come on, I can't do this without you, MB."

May tore Kenna's fingers away, gentle as can be with her patched-up hand. She knew Kenna. The girl could do this all day.

"Okay, I'm in," she agreed reluctantly, and let Kenna smother her in a tight embrace.  
  
  


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As Kenna pedaled off, the sun was setting orange over the horizon, eclipsing her silhouette into a flurry of frantic hand-waving and tumbling braids. May stood on the porch until the silhouette vanished. Then she released a deep, long-suppressed sigh and shut the door.

"She seems nice," her grandmother said, making her way into the living room. "Kenna, is it?"

May pretended not to hear. Her wounded hand was aching something furious. She walked off briskly, heading for the staircase.

"Come down at once. We're not finished talking," January warned, voice steely.

May scowled: for once, a genuine, unartificial expression contorted her face.

"Sit down," January commanded. "Pass me some tea."

May complied, in robotic movements. The tea was cold and lifeless, its hue as stale as a dead sun. Black dregs circled the bottom of the cup like vultures.

She handed it to her grandmother.

"Two hands."

Teeth gritted, the girl obeyed, clasping her bandaged fingers around the little china thing.

"Much better," January said, taking the cup. "Now, about your friend, Kenna. She goes to church, correct?"

 _Yeah, she and about every other family in this god-forsaken town, if they care about their reputation._ May thought, but said nothing of it.

"Yes, Gran."

"You should have her around more often. You could learn a thing or two from her."

January paused, taking a sip. On her neck, a silver cross glinted coldly.

"I overheard you two planning to hang out this summer."

 _Overheard_. What a convenient word.

"Yes, Gran," May said, avoiding eye contact. "We start working at the library this Wednesday."

"Volunteering work, I suppose?"

May nodded.

January drained the remains of whatever was in her cup. "You know, your mother used to be real big on extracurricular when she was your age."

_Was she, now._

"I've always supported her as a mother. As a grandmother, I was wondering when you would begin following in her footsteps."

_Really. You do._

"All this extracurricular is fun and all, isn't it? Really help with college, too, is that right?"

May didn't like where this was going one bit, but she nodded again, minimally.

"Does Kenna plan to go to college?"

May couldn't think of anyone more suitable and deserving of higher education than the smart, vivacious Kenna Blaise. That and the fact that her parents already had plans for her to enter pre-med.

"Yes, Gran."

"Do you?"

To be fair, May didn't get around to really think about it. But the whole idea of college is to get away from it all, isn't it? Away from your backwater hometown, all the bigots you know from school and Sunday church. From your family, too, if that's what you call them.

So she said, emphatically.

" _Yes_."

Silence befell the two for a while.

"Well, there it is, again." As usual, January spoke first. "You have so much faith in your little body sometimes, it _almost_ convinces me that you are capable."

May clutched the rim of her seat with both hands, saying nothing.

"But you are not. And that's okay." She set the cup down with a tinker. "Not all of us can afford it. Not all of us _deserve_ it. You get what I mean, May?"

A dry lump welled up in May's throat. Her face flushed crimson, hidden from view by unruly hair that fell on either side of her face. Her fingers gripped down on the sofa's edge so hard that the wound on her left hand broke open. Warm blood bloomed red through the cotton dressing, unnoticed.

"Are you listening, May?"

"Yes," May said, the word leaving her mouth like a spit, " _grandmother_."

January leaned back in her chair.

"Very good. Now, before you go. Don't forget your medication."

She said, plucking a bottle from out of nowhere. In her boney index and thumb, a soft-blue pill gleamed.

May blinked. "I took my meds this morning. You saw me."

"Doctor Grisham thinks that," January explained, as if to a five-year-old, "given your _progression,_ the dosage should be increased."

 _Be a good girl and take it_ , the old woman warned, her silver eyes glinting.

Wordlessly, May took the pill, putting it in her mouth. January handed her a cup.

"Water," the old woman said coldly.

With hawk-like scrutiny, the old woman stood by and made sure May drank it all, down to the very last drop.  
  
  


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When May was finally safe behind her bedroom door she retched violently and a blue pill rolled out of the corner of her jaw like a loose tooth. It fell to the floor with a _splat_ , its capsule half-dissolved. She searched the caverns of her mouth, clawing off the taste.

A strange, curt laugh escaped her. For being sugar-coated, the pill tasted like shit. Like sucking on a copper coin. Perhaps worse.

Gathering saliva in her mouth, May ran to the window, spitting out the chemical remains. She wiped her mouth on the neck of her hand, now noticing the fresh blood budding on the bandage.

A nuisance, really. At least it wasn't her right hand that was cut. She could do with some heavy writing today. It had always pacified her, the motion of pen-on-paper and the words. Who knows, it might just jump-start her memories altogether. May had a feeling she'd missed something big last week, and she'd be golden if she could get around to remember any of it.

 

⚘

 

At last the curtains drew shut and that was Haze's cue to leave. Cursing the long summer days, he stepped out from the shadows, shaking off the rogue leaves that had stuck to his linens. It was then he noticed fine white dust lining the breast of his suit.

 _How irksome_ , Haze frowned. Or rather he would, had he got a face.

Haze was not human. Humanoid enough, though: from the neck down at least. And he was sharply dressed too, in sleeved white and a grey waistcoat. Nevertheless, the ensemble failed to draw attention away from the fact that his head was missing: in its place, a trail of formless, wispy smoke curled around an unseen core.

Haze flicked a hand over the powdery mess. Beneath pale sleeves, the skin on his palm stood out with inky translucency. Underneath was a set of stark white phalanges, fanning out in long, tapered fingers – all six of them.

Thankfully there was no one around to witness. It could have been troublesome. Perhaps embarrassing.

Haze was definitely not one for field runs. It was typically a job for either Proxies or the numerous cultists in hiding here, all of whom mysteriously occupied at the moment. He couldn't blame them, they were exactly where the Order wanted: scattered and well-concealed. And Haze had been meaning to stretch his legs a bit.

He leaned back against the shadows as the streetlights crack into life one by one, little fireballs that course the length of the walking lane. It was a while since Haze had been to this part of town, and the way he saw it, little had changed. He could see why the Operator was so hard-pressed to visit the neighborhood. The houses, the close-knit arbor linings; everything was nostalgic in a way that saddened Haze, and he'd like to believe the same was true for the Operator. Or Slendy, as Haze called him - an impertinent liberty only he got to abuse.

Lately, Slendy had been... unusually evasive. Admittedly, he wasn't the most outspoken out of all cryptids to begin with. He had not directly communicated with his followers for centuries, but it was partially due to the fact that doing so would either turn their guts inside out or mess up the entirety of their independent consciousness. Human constitution is, more often than not, so fragile.

Haze was rather glad he wasn't (completely) one of them. But that means he had his work cut out for him. As one of those few in the Order who could address the Operator directly without severe consequences, Haze swiftly became the official herald, meaning he was more privy to inner workings than anyone. Not just inner workings, but often the entirety of the Operator's grand schemes that Haze himself contribute to, as an Ally of the Order.

This ongoing one seemed to be a different case. Haze knew next to nothing of the current plan, not even the stages nor the endgame. He had been receiving only blunt memos that were more commands than discourse, and it harried him a tad: most of them had been very risky, aggressive tasks that didn't really add up.

Like the one he just did, for instance. Snatching a child in broad daylight and dust up her cake with powdered amnesia? Unthinkable. Haze couldn't even see the point. The personage's med dosage had just been doubled, Grisham had seen to that. What more could she possibly forget but her own name?

Haze shook his curls of smoke in a disapproving motion. He would have to go over this plan again with Slendy. If he ever showed up, that is.

The Slenderman had been missing. He was last seen by his division in Germany months ago, before vanishing without a trace. That wouldn't be the first time he'd done that. Something big was coming their way, and Haze knew that every effort counted, even if it means the Operator doing the legwork himself. After the Prophecy, nothing was the same. And that was forty years ago.

Letting out something akin to a sigh, Haze strode off to the tall shadows of the trees, keeping to himself. An object dug into his thigh as he walked. It was a can, unlabeled, whose content spilled out a bit as Haze retrieved it from his pocket. Fine, white dust, like powdered sugar, yet anything but.

It was amnesia magic – temporary but powerful. Phobos had crafted it specifically for this task, but the demi-loa probably wouldn't mind, _probably_ , if Haze had purloined it for future use.

After all, the Diner was expecting someone sooner or later, and it would be most unkind for them to go without his signature, mind-blowing beignets.

 

⚘

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no proofreading we die like men
> 
> but pls do call out me for any grammar mistakes or language convolution lol


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